Текст книги "Field of Blood"

Автор книги: Paul Harding

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'And how did you get hold of it?'

'When he left the church, Brother, he just fled: the King's officers were pursuing him. I used to tidy his house until I got tired of his games. Anyway, the morning he left, I went in and found this lying beneath his bed. He had apparently hidden it there and forgotten it.'

Athelstan leafed through the pages. It contained crude drawings of gargoyles, a dog depicted as a human, spells and incantations.

'It's a grimoire,' he explained. 'A sorcerer's book.'

'I thought I should throw it away, Brother, but I was frightened.'

Athelstan slipped it into his chancery bag and tapped her on the shoulder.

'Don't worry. I'll burn it for you.'

They went down the stairs and out into the street, Athelstan briskly informing Sir John of the latest crisis in the parish council.

'It's serious,' Sir John agreed, glaring across at two ragged boys who were standing beside a wall seeing who could pee the highest. 'I've heard of many a marriage that's been forbidden because of that.'

They left the lane and went down the main thoroughfare to London Bridge. A cart trundled by. Inside, their hands lashed to the rail, were a group of whores, heads bald as eggs, their wigs piled into a basket pulled at the tail of the cart. Behind this a beadle blew on a set of bagpipes, inviting all and sundry to come and mock these ladies of the night being taken down to the stocks and pillories near London Bridge. Most, however, ignored the invitation. The women were local girls and most of the abuse, both verbal and clods of mud, was directed at the hapless beadle.

Cranston and Athelstan waited a while to let the cart move on. They passed the Priory of St Mary Overy, pausing now and again to greet parishioners. They reached the bridge but, instead of making their way down the narrow thoroughfare between the houses, Athelstan knocked on the metal-studded door of the gatehouse. It was flung open and Robert Burdon, the mannikin keeper of London Bridge, poked his head out. His black hair was greased in spikes, his face half-shaved. In his hand he grasped a horse comb and brush.

'What is it you want, friar? You'd best come through!' The little mannikin jumped from foot to foot. 'The lady wife is out. She has taken all nine children down to the fair at Smithfield so I am doing my heads.'

Sir John snorted in surprise.

'Don't look at me like that, Sir John Cranston! You may be a King's officer but so am I. I am responsible for the gatehouse, and am constable and keeper of the bridge. I also have my heads!'

He led them down a narrow passageway and out into the garden beyond, a small plot of grass with flower beds stretching down to the high rail fence which overlooked the river. Just before this ranged six poles driven deep into the soil.

'Oh, Lord save us!' Athelstan whispered.

On three of the poles were severed heads, freshly cut, the blood flowing down the wooden posts. Thankfully they were turned the other way facing out towards the Tower.

'Must we stand here?' Sir John murmured, feeling slightly sick.

'The court says,' the mannikin replied, 'that these heads are to be displayed before sunset. River pirates, Sir John, caught in the estuary they were. Sentence was carried out on Tower Hill just after dawn this morning. I comb their hair, wash their faces.' He pointed further down where the long execution poles jutted out over the river. 'And then I'll place them there.'

Sir John took a swig from his wineskin then cursed as he realised the Venerable Veronica had already emptied it for him.

'Come on, Athelstan, get to the point!' he growled.

Burdon was gazing longingly at his heads.

'Do you know what, Robert?' Athelstan asked. 'You are one of the few adults smaller than me. Anyway, I have one question for you. On Saturday evening, about five o'clock, did two royal messengers ride across the bridge?'

'Of course they did. Cloaked and cowled, carrying their warrants and, according to custom, they showed me their commissions before they left the city.'

Athelstan clasped the little man round the shoulder.

'In which case, Robert, we won't keep you from your heads any longer.'

And, not waiting for the mannikin to lead them, they went back through the house and on to the bridge.

'I'd forgotten about that.' Cranston nudged Athelstan playfully. 'Of course, every royal messenger leaving the city by the bridge must, by regulation, show his commission to the gatekeeper. Why, what did you suspect?'

'Oh, that something had happened to Miles Sholter and perhaps only one of them left. I don't know.' Athelstan shook his head. 'Now, Sir John, before we go to the Tower, I must have words with Mistress Sholter in Mincham Lane.'

Sir John gazed dolefully up at the sky.

'Here we are, Brother, on London Bridge, between heaven and earth! My feet are sore, my wineskin's empty and everywhere we turn there's no door, just brick walls without even a crack to slip through.'

'We'll find one, Jack,' Athelstan replied. 'And the sooner the better.'

They crossed the bridge as quickly as they could. Athelstan tried not to look left or right between the gaps in the houses. He always found the drop to the river rather dizzying and disconcerting.

They left the bridge, went down Billingsgate and up Love Lane into Eastchepe. Sir John wanted to stop at an alehouse but Athelstan urged him on. At the entrance to Mincham Lane they found the way barred by a group of wandering troubadours who were playing a scene using mime. Athelstan stood fascinated. The troubadour leader was challenging the crowd to say which scene from the gospels they were copying. Athelstan watched.

'It's the sower sowing his seed!' he called out.

The troubadour's face became stern. Athelstan realised he had solved the riddle and should collect the reward. The rest of the troupe stopped. The troubadour picked up the little silver cup which was the prize. He looked down at it then at Athelstan.

'Run for it, lads!' he bawled.

And the whole group took off down an alleyway pursued by the jeers and cat-calls of their small audience.

'Very good, Brother.' Sir John grinned. 'I've never seen that trick before. They collect money from the audience and, if anyone solves the problem, they are off like the wind.'

They went further along into Mincham Lane, a broad thoroughfare with pink plaster houses on either side. Most of the lower stories served as shops with stalls in front displaying clothing, felts, shoes and caps. The sewer, unlike those in Southwark, was clean and smelt of the saltpetre placed over the night soil and other refuse.

Mistress Sholter's house was at the far end, a two-storied building with a pointed roof and jutting gables. A well-furnished stall stood outside the front door, the lintel of which was draped in mourning clothes.

'Is your mistress within?' Sir John asked the two apprentices manning it.

'Yes, sir, she's still grieving,' one of them replied lugubriously. 'She's there with her maid and Master Eccleshall.'

Sir John and Athelstan entered the house and waited in the hallway. It was clean and well furnished. Pieces of black lawn now covered the gleaming white plaster on either side. A young woman, her hair gathered up in a mob cap, came out of a room to their right.

'I beg your pardon, sirs?'

'Sir John Cranston, coroner, and his secretarius Brother Athelstan.'

'Oh, do come in,' a voice called.

The maid stepped aside. Cranston and Athelstan entered a well-furnished parlour where Mistress Sholter and Eccleshall were seated on either side of the hearth. A sewing-basket in the window seat showed where the maid had been sitting. The widow and her companion rose. Athelstan made the introductions and the coroner quickly accepted Mistress Sholter's offer of refreshment.

Sweet wine was served and a small tray of crusty, sweet marchpane. Athelstan refused this but Sir John took a number of pieces, murmured his condolences and slurped at the wine cup.

'I'm sorry to intrude on your mourning.'

Athelstan noted that most of the hangings on the walls were hidden by funeral cloths.

'However, I need to ask further questions.'

Bridget Sholter's face looked even paler, framed by her dark hair under a mourning veil which fell down beneath her shoulders.

'What questions, Brother? I've been sitting here with Philip wondering what had happened.'

'Tell me again?'

'I've told you,' Eccleshall said. 'Miles and I left here about four o'clock.'

'And you reached the Silken Thomas?'

'Oh, about six.'

'You travelled slowly?'

'What was the hurry? We'd decided to stay at the Silken Thomas and leave before dawn. We would be refreshed and so would our horses.' He shrugged. 'Measure out the distance yourself. It takes an age to get across the bridge; we stopped to pray at the chapel of St Thomas a Becket. Then, of course, we had to wait for that officious little gatekeeper.'

'True, true,' Sir John agreed. 'A leisurely ride from here to the Silken Thomas would take that long.'

'And you, Mistress Bridget?' Athelstan asked.

She made a face and gestured at her maid.

'Hilda here will attest to this: shortly after Miles went, I closed the stall, after all it was Saturday afternoon. I left the house and went down to the markets in Petty Wales.'

'Then you came back here?'

'Well, of course, Brother.' She laughed softly. 'Where else could I go?'

'It's true what my mistress says,' the maid said. 'The master left. As he did so, the apprentices were bringing the goods in. The mistress then dismissed me and she took her basket out.'

'You don't sleep here?'

'Oh no, Brother, I live with my own family in Shoe Lane.'

'Our house is very small,' Bridget Sholter explained. 'We have a parlour, kitchen and scullery while the upper rooms are used as bedchamber, a small chancery office and storerooms.'

'But I came back here later,' Hilda said.

'At what time?'

'Oh, it must have been just before curfew, between ten and eleven o'clock.' 'What is your name?'

'Hilda Smallwode: when the Master's away, I always come and see that all is well.'

'Why these questions?' Bridget Sholter asked, getting to her feet. 'What are you implying?'

'I am implying nothing, madam.' Athelstan also rose. 'We are investigating the dreadful murder, not only of your husband, but of two other souls. My parish faces a heavy fine and the people I serve are poor. I need to know every detail if I am to lodge an appeal.'

Eccleshall spread his legs out, stretching them until the muscles cracked.

'Well, Brother, now you have it: Miles and I left shortly after four o'clock. We crossed London Bridge. We stopped to say a prayer at the chapel of St

Thomas a Becket. The gatekeeper, after some delay, let us through. We must have arrived at the Silken Thomas just before six o'clock. At some time before eight Miles decided to return for his St Christopher medal.'

'Yes, can I see that?' Athelstan asked. Bridget Sholter, looking narrow-eyed, made to refuse but Sir John coughed and shuffled his feet. 'I'll get it for you.'

She left and came back. The medal was really a large locket, gold gilt on a silver chain. Athelstan prised the clasp open to reveal on one side a picture of Christ, on the other a St Christopher bearing the Infant Jesus. Athelstan snapped it shut and handed it back.

'I thank you mistress, Master Eccleshall.' They made their farewells and went out into Eastchepe.

'What was all that about?' Sir John asked. Athelstan led him through a porchway. 'Sir John, Miles Sholter was murdered. I am sure, as God made little apples, those two are responsible!'

Chapter 8

Athelstan stared up at the great keep of the Tower. On the green around him the women of the garrison were washing their clothes in great iron-hooped vats. Children also played in these, splashing water, jumping out and chasing each other. Soldiers lounged in the shadows drinking ale and playing dice. A lazy, pleasant place. The autumn sun was now warm and the grounds of the Tower seemed more like the setting for a midsummer fair than a formidable fortress. The mangonels, catapults and battering rams were all covered with tarred sheets. A horseman rode in, the hooves of his mount clattering on the cobbles. Grooms shouted and ran out to help take off the harness and lead the horse away. Cooking smells drifted from the kitchens and, from the royal menagerie, came the powerful roar of the lion sent as a gift by the Prince of Barbary to John of Gaunt.

The great hall, which lay next to the Chapel of St Peter ad Vincula, had its door flung open. Servants and retainers were bringing out the greasy laden trestle tables to be scraped and washed once the women had finished with the vats of water. Two great hunting dogs snarled and fought over blood-spattered bones. Athelstan's gaze travelled to the parapets where archers, supposedly on guard, sought shade against the autumn sun.

Athelstan eased his writing bag off his shoulders and sat down on the grass. One of the great hunting dogs came over, chased by a child; it would have licked his face but the little boy grabbed the dog and pulled it away. Athelstan turned back to study the keep which soared up into the sky six or seven storeys high, built of dressed stone. Athelstan wondered at the ingenuity of the builder, Gundulf.

'He was a Bishop of Rochester,' he said to himself. 'He may not have been much of a churchman but, as a mason, he had a real gift.'

Athelstan glanced across at the Chapel of St Peter ad Vincula which lay to his left. The old church was being refurbished and Athelstan noted how the derelict cemetery had been turned into a pleasant green yard; the old tombstones and other monuments had been removed then the ground grassed over.

Athelstan loosened the cord round his waist and made himself comfortable. Sir John had met Flaxwith at the Tower gates and despatched him on certain errands. He had then gone to report to the constable, Sir Marmaduke Mount joy. However, this newly appointed official was out hunting on the marshes so Sir John had to do business with the surly-faced lieutenant, Colebrooke. The coroner now sauntered back out of the hall whistling under his breath. One of the great dogs ran up. Athelstan was always amused how animals loved Sir John. The coroner skipped away.

'Nice dog! Nice dog!' he said. 'Now go and eat someone else!'

'What are we waiting for, Sir John?'

Athelstan saw Colebrooke, dressed in a brown leather jerkin, green leggings and battered boots, come out on to the steps of the half-timbered great hall, thumbs stuck into his war belt. Sir John crouched down on the grass and indicated with his head.

'Old Merry Eyes over there,' he declared sardonically, 'will take us up into the chamber where Bartholomew Menster worked and kept his possessions. Thank God the place has not been cleared. They are still looking for a replacement. When I called this morning, I told Master Hengan to meet us here around noon. Look, Brother.' The coroner made himself comfortable. 'You really believe that precious pair we've just visited are guilty of murder? But how could it be done? Sholter was definitely seen leaving the city, crossing the bridge and arriving at the Silken Thomas.'

'I don't know, Sir John, but, as you often say, I feel it in my water.' Athelstan plucked at a piece of grass and chewed on it.

'Are you hungry, priest?' Sir John unstoppered the wineskin. 'Old Merry Eyes over there filled it.' He took a swig, pulled a face and spat it out. 'Satan's futtocks! It's vinegar!'

'It will clean the wineskin,' Athelstan replied, his mind going back to Mistress Sholter and Master

Eccleshall. Two killers, posturing in mock innocence. She, the grieving widow, he the understanding friend. You played the two-backed beast together, he thought. You've committed adultery and, in some subtle way, you killed that poor man. My parishioners will now pay for your wickedness. Time will pass and, by Easter, you will be married, adding blasphemy and sacrilege to your sins.

'Be of good cheer, Brother. Here comes Master Hengan.'

They got to their feet as the lawyer strode across the grass towards them. He clasped their hands; despite the smile, Hengan looked worried.

'I've been to see Mistress Kathryn at Newgate.' He scratched his thinning hair. 'She's in good spirits, but she just sits and keeps her own counsel.'

'Master Colebrooke!' Sir John bawled.

The lieutenant came down the steps and walked as slowly as possible across the grass.

'Look at that sour face,' Sir John whispered. 'It would turn piss sour.'

'Sir John.' The lieutenant forced a smile, his eyes watchful.

Athelstan had done business before with Colebrooke. A red-haired, testy-tempered young man full of his own importance, constantly bemoaning the fact that he was always lieutenant and never constable.

'Ah, Master Colebrooke, if you could show us to Bartholomew Menster's chamber?'

Colebrooke sighed, jingled the keys on a ring on his belt, and led them across the green into the Wakefield Tower. They tramped up the spiral stone staircase passing different chambers, their doors open. Some were empty, others housed clerks poring over rolls of vellum. Near the top Colebrooke stopped outside a nail-studded door, unlocked it and threw it open. The chamber was large and circular. It smelt musty and stale. Colebrooke hastened to open the shutters, allowing in bursts of sunlight and fresh air. The bed had been stripped; only a straw-filled mattress remained and two dark-stained bolsters. A cloak hung from a peg on the wall, other garments from hooks on the inside of the door. There were tables and stools, a tray of pewter cups and a cracked flagon. A wooden lavarium, bearing a bowl and jug, stood in the corner. Some saddlebags lay piled next to coffers and chests beneath a crucifix.

'He never took anything with him,' Athelstan remarked. 'I mean, at first it was thought Bartholomew had eloped with the young tavern wench.'

Colebrooke rubbed his nose on the back of his hand.

'I never believed that: Bartholomew was a quiet, studious man. He loved working in the Tower, constantly chattering about its history, searching among the records and old manuscripts.'

Athelstan walked over to the table and touched the rolls of vellum, the well-thumbed ledgers sewn together with black twine.

'God have mercy on him,' Colebrooke continued. 'Fancy a man like Bartholomew being killed by a woman, eh?'

'When was his last day of work?' Athelstan asked.

'We had the midsummer fair on the Feast of St John, the twenty-fourth of June, that was a Thursday. I remember seeing him the following day.'

'That would be the twenty-fifth?' 'Yes, then he disappeared.'

'Did he say or do anything untoward?' Sir John asked.

He had taken off his wineskin and ostentatiously poured the wine into a chamber pot he had pulled from underneath the bed. Colebrooke smirked.

'You don't like our wine, Sir John?'

'No, I don't. But answer my question!'

'When he went missing, I made careful search.' Colebrooke shook his head. 'I could discover nothing. A close, secretive man, Bartholomew. All we knew was that he was sweet on a tavern wench.'

'Did he have friends?' Athelstan asked.

'No family to talk of. Bartholomew lived and slept here, until he took up with the wench.' Colebrooke walked to the door. 'If you want, I shall have refreshments sent up.' With another smirk he left.

Sir John went and kicked the door shut with his boot.

'Right, gentlemen.' The coroner rubbed his hands. 'I'm hungry, but nothing that a pot of ale and a meat pie wouldn't cure. So, let's begin.'

They soon listed Miles's paltry possessions: some robes, clothing, belts, a sword and rusty dagger; two skullcaps, a felt hat, wallets and empty purses.

'I wager any money he had soon disappeared,' Sir John said. 'Colebrooke's got the eyes of a jackdaw.'

Athelstan, seated at the desk, was piling all the manuscripts together. These he divided out and asked his companions to go through them.

The day wore on; now and again broken by the sound of a bell or the blowing of a horn as the hunters returned to the Tower from the moorlands to the north. Most of the manuscripts were old accounts and ledger books which provoked nothing of interest. Two or three were letters written by Bartholomew to different people in the city. Athelstan was determined to find something and, after a while, he pushed these aside, going quickly through the pile until he brought out a yellowing piece of parchment sewn together with twine. As he thumbed through this, the pages crackling, the ink slightly faded, he noticed a fresh piece of parchment had been inserted. He studied the entry most carefully.

'This is an extract from a chronicle,' he exclaimed. 'An account of the building of the Tower.' Athelstan sifted quickly among the manuscripts. 'And here's a map, crudely drawn.'

The parchment was stiff, blackened at the edges. Athelstan studied the map, aware of the other two standing behind him. He pulled the small candle closer.

'It's a mason's drawing, done in black ink, though this is faded. Look, there's the keep. Here are the Tower walls.' Athelstan moved his finger to the left. 'And there's Petty Wales, beneath it the river. And look at this.' He pointed to the faded words ecclesia Romana,'the Roman Church.' 'This chronicle was written two hundred years ago by a very old man who was one of Bishop Gundulf's scribes. He describes how the Tower was constructed. He also comments on the Roman ruins. Apparently, the Paradise Tree is built on the ruins of an old Roman church.' He turned over the pages and noticed the fresh marks in the margin. 'That's Bartholomew's writing. The chronicler is telling of Gundulf's treasure. Apparently the old bishop had it melted down and fashioned into a great ingot. A foot in diameter and, listen to this, nine inches thick!'

'Satan's futtocks!' Sir John breathed.

'The chronicle then goes on to say that before he died, "Gundulfus celavit hunc thesaurum, quod fulgebat sicut sol, in ecclesia prope turrem."Gundulf hid this gold,' Athelstan translated, 'which glowed like the sun, in the church next to the Tower.' He paused. 'In my view the church next to the Tower is a reference to the old Roman ruins.'

'The site of the Paradise Tree?' Sir John exclaimed.

'Bartholomew must have believed that Gundulf hid his treasure somewhere in the vicinity of the tavern.' Athelstan turned his stool round. 'Did Bartholomew ever discuss this matter with you or Mistress Vestler?'

Hengan shook his head. 'Never to my knowledge, Brother.' He tapped the map. 'If any treasure were buried beneath that tavern, I doubt if it's there now.'

'Why is that?'

'Brother, I deal in property: bills of sales, searches and scrutiny. If the old Roman church was destroyed and a tavern built, the treasure must be under it.'

'Of course,' Athelstan replied. 'It's near the river and the ground becomes water-logged.'

'This was written over two hundred years ago,' Hengan pointed out. 'The Thames often breaks its banks. It's a common occurrence every autumn: the soil crumbles, the river swells and floods the mud-banks.'

'So it could have been swept away?'

'Perhaps but, there again, if the treasure were hidden and protected by the old foundations …'

Athelstan recalled the Four Gospels.

'I wonder,' he mused, 'if our little religious group chose that spot to await St Michael or to continue their own searches? Master Hengan, they told me a story about barges which come up the Thames late at night carrying dark figures which, if the Four Gospels are to be believed, disembark and steal towards the Paradise Tree.'

'Oh, Lord save us!' The lawyer rubbed his eyes. 'I hope Whittock doesn't get hold of that.'

Athelstan looked across the chamber to where Sir John stood half-listening while going through other pieces of manuscript. At the mention of Whittock, the coroner strode across.

'Odo Whittock, the serjeant-at-law?'

'The same,' Hengan replied.

Sir John glimpsed the puzzlement in Athelstan's

eyes.

'Odo Whittock,' he explained, 'is a young, ambitious serjeant-at-law: a veritable limner, a sniffer-out of crime. He works for the Barons of the Exchequer but, now and again, he does pleas for the Crown.'

'In other words a prosecutor?'

'Yes, Brother, a prosecutor,' Hengan said. 'I have heard good rumour that Sir Henry Brabazon has appointed Whittock to investigate this matter. Let me put it this way. Brabazon will loose the arrows.'

'But Whittock will be by his side,' Athelstan finished, 'holding the quiver?'

'Precisely, Brother. If Whittock gets hold of that sort of story, of which I know nothing, it will go badly for Mistress Kathryn.'

'I remember Odo,' Sir John intervened. 'Tall, thin-faced, nose like a falcon's beak. Eyes which never miss a trick. Prisoners at the bar are more frightened of him than they are of torturers in the Tower. A good friend but a bad enemy.'

'Did Bartholomew ever try and buy the Paradise Tree?' Athelstan asked, returning to the matter in hand.

'Not to my knowledge. But, as I have said, Mistress Vestler might sing a different tune.' 'Oh, look at this.'

Sir John, who had gone back to his searches, came and threw a scrap of parchment into Athelstan's lap. Athelstan picked it up and quickly translated the Latin.

'Who is Geoffrey Bapaume? Oh yes, I see, a goldsmith! Good heavens!' Athelstan exclaimed. 'It's a list of monies, five hundred pounds sterling, lodged by the said Bartholomew Menster in Bapaume's coffers. Bartholomew must have been careful with his monies: this was dated the sixth of June of this year. It would seem our dead clerk was collecting all his monies together.'

'I'll visit Bapaume before the scrutineers from the Exchequer do,' Sir John said. 'Now Bartholomew is declared officially dead, they'll search out every penny he owned. If there were no heirs, the royal treasury will sweep in the lot.'

'So, what do we have here?' Athelstan got up and paced the floor. 'Firstly, we know that Bartholomew was a careful clerk, sweet on the tavern wench, Margot Haden. He held a post here in the Tower which he used to search out the lost treasure of Gundulf, Bishop of Rochester. Secondly, we know Bartholomew found an old chronicle, written some years after Gundulf died. The writer was probably repeating a legend, or one that he may have learned from his old master, that Gundulf melted his gold down and hid it in a church near the Tower. Thirdly, we know that Bartholomew was deeply interested in this secret. This probably accounts for his visits to the Paradise Tree and his relationship with the young chambermaid. He made a cryptic reference to the Four Gospels about the treasure glowing like the sun and being hidden beneath the sun; that was an allusion to the line from the chronicle. Fourthly, we know that Bartholomew's last day on this earth was probably the twenty-fifth of June, but that's as far as we go. What else, Sir Jack?'

'Bartholomew would work here until just before sunset. In summer time that would be seven or eight o'clock in the evening, so he and Margot must have been murdered after that on the evening in question. That's some time ago. Memories dim. We know there was no mark of violence on the corpses, no blows to the skull or the ribcage of either. Therefore, we can safely deduce that death was by poison which must have been concealed in something they ate or drank.'

'Excellent, my lord coroner.' Athelstan smiled. 'Sharp as a cutting sword; ruthless as a swooping hawk.'

Sir John beamed with pleasure. 'Master Hengan, would you agree with this?'

The lawyer scratched his chin and nodded.

'Bartholomew was a clerk.' The lawyer picked up the story. 'But he had seen military service. Margot was a young woman, vigorous and strong; their deaths must have been by stealth …'

'Which leads us to two conclusions,' Athelstan interrupted. 'They were either killed at the Paradise Tree and their bodies taken out in the dead of night … He stopped as he recalled that great oak tree with its overhanging branches, the shade it would provide on a hot summer's evening. A good place to sit and take the cool breezes from the river.

'Or what?' Sir John asked crossly.

'Maybe their bodies didn't have to be taken out? Maybe they were sitting under the oak tree and the assassin, like a serpent, entered their Eden. Was there a third, or even fourth, person there? Or did the Four Gospels invite them down to their cottage? After all, Bartholomew had referred to treasure in their presence. Just because that precious group are waiting for the return of Michael and all his angels doesn't mean they are averse to taking a little gold.'

'I have another theory.' Sir John spoke up. 'What about those dark shapes? The shadow men who come up the Thames at the dead of night? They could have stumbled on our clerk and his sweetheart, or even been involved in this hunt for Gundulf's treasure.'

'I know what Whittock will say of all this,' Hengan broke in mournfully. 'Kathryn Vestler had the best opportunity for murdering Bartholomew and Margot.' He pulled a face. 'As well as the means. Kathryn does keep poison in the Paradise Tree, as all taverners do, to destroy rats and vermin.'

'But what about the motive?' Athelstan asked.

'Master Hengan, was there any hint of a relationship between Mistress Vestler and Bartholomew?'

'None that I knew of. Bartholomew was an amiable man. Kathryn was nice enough to him but nothing singular.'

'I have another theory,' Sir John proudly declared. 'Let us say our clerk truly believed Gundulf's treasure was buried somewhere in or around the Paradise Tree and shared this knowledge with Mistress Vestler. What happens if they've already discovered it?'

'You mean thieves falling out?' Athelstan asked.

'Possibly. Whatever the case, as Master Hengan's said, if all these matters come to light, Sir Henry Brabazon and Master Whittock will make great play of them. Indeed …' He paused and spread out his fat fingers.

'Indeed what?' Hengan asked.

'I don't know how to say this, Master Hengan, but, as an officer of the Crown, I have the right to conduct a search.'

'Into what?' Hengan coloured.